


A Promise Meant to be Kept

by Makkoska



Category: Naruto
Genre: Birthday Blues, Brooding, First Kiss, M/M, One Shot, kid!Hashirama, kid!Madara
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-14
Updated: 2019-05-14
Packaged: 2020-03-05 08:26:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18824914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Makkoska/pseuds/Makkoska
Summary: Birthdays are a perfect excuse to feel maudlin and reflect on the past. Madara spends some time brooding at the time of the Senju-Uchiha war, thinking about happier times spent with Hashirama.





	A Promise Meant to be Kept

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this piece about 5 years ago, but never got around to upload it. I found it on my drive recently, showed it to Komo Pineconeseed, was encouraged by her nice words (can’t thank you enough for you continuous support, dear!), corrected the most glaring typos, and voila - a “new” fic is posted!

 

 

It was supposed to snow. After all, it was December; it was the season for soft flakes to fall, gently, peacefully, to cover everything, the encampment, the fields, the bloody, dirty remains of battles with a clean, white blanket. 

His mother used to tell him he became so strong because he was born on a very cold winter day, when everything was covered in ice and snow. Most creatures just lay low and tried not to freeze to death, but Madara had screamed and kicked, demanding to be held and fed. He couldn’t picture himself as the new born baby his mother used to tell fond stories about. Quite probably he became strong because of the harsh training his father put him through, because he fought life and death battles since he was eight. His mother used to be way too sentimentalist.  

There wasn’t any snow today. It was raining, cold, thick drops making everything wet and chilling him to the bone as he sat outside his porch, just under the protection of the roof. Well, he wasn’t a new born anymore, he couldn’t scream until someone made it all better. He would turn seventeen in a day. He was an orphan. He had to bear the burdens of life alone. He had to protect his little brother and he had to lead the clan. 

He snorted and raked his fingers through his hair in aggravation. It had started to grow past his shoulders, but he just didn’t care enough to cut it any longer. He preferred if it fell around his face, a curtain to shadow his expression. He needed its protection often nowadays, since the clashes with the Senju became so frequent again.  

It’d been over three years since they’d last met with Hashirama as friends, since he’d learned his family name, but thinking of him as his deadly enemy didn’t become any easier. That was why he always sought him out in fights - he had to overcome this weakness somehow, he had to bury his own emotions. Hashirama was no longer a boy, he was now a young man just as Madara was, and he was the leader of a hostile clan. Not just any clan, but the archenemy of the Uchiha. Madara had to stop thinking about him as a friend. Any day on the battlefield could prove to be the final fight between them, and he had to be ready to kill him.  

It helped that his appearance changed, that he hardly resembled that naive kid Madara for some inexplicable reason made friends with. He’d grown up, he was more and more of a man in every battle Madara saw him, tall and strong, a real commander. With his hair grown long, in the armour he always wore, he was a different person, a stranger. Madara was probably doing him a favour with how his appearance changed as well, his black, uncombed locks tumbling onto his back, the childhood softness on his face sharpening into a worn-out battle mask. Sometimes he looked into the mirror, saw the permanent, purplish circles under his eyes he had from lack of sleep and hardly recognised himself.  

In was surprising on many levels how Hashirama still tried to reach out for him, calling his name even when they clashed. How he kept parrying and blocking his blows instead of counterattacking. How he kept sending those ceasefire offers. What was he trying to achieve, Madara couldn’t fathom. So, he just hid behind his hair, hardened his resolve and tried to best him with everything he got… 

He cut his line of thought, angry at himself. There was no use in being maudlin, thinking about his dead parents and the only friend he ever had. It was probably because of his upcoming birthday, the date reminding him of time passing by. Or it was simply this forsaken weather that confined him inside for days until he felt the walls were closing in on him. 

He would have gone to train even in the cold rain, even if it meant soaking to the bones and chilled to the point when everything felt numb. But he knew Izuna would insist coming with him, and he was under the weather for weeks...and as precious as his brother was to him, the only remaining person he cared for, today he just wanted to be alone. 

Sleep avoided him that night, just as it usually did. Most of the time he didn’t mind – insomnia was preferable to reliving the death of his brothers, his parents in dreams, to the men he murdered coming back to haunt him in nightmares. But this time he just couldn’t reach that particular point where his mind became empty after staring so long at the dark ceiling. 

He kept thinking about Hashirama. 

He should have left this… longing, this shameful, treacherous yearning behind him long ago. The Senju was his enemy - and no more than that. That short episode of them being friends - best if that was buried and forgotten. He couldn’t trust him, he knew his kind, their clans opposed since the beginning of time. Only stupid kids who knew nothing about the world could think peace could be made and conflicts that existed for generations could be soothed. Only children believed in useless, silly dreams, never realizing the dangers of befriending a stranger, someone whose last name they didn’t even know. Only they ignored all the warning signs telling of the other lineage, so they didn’t have to face the truth. An adult like Madara shouldn’t even remember how he was once warmed by another boy’s cheerful smile, or how he used to enjoy the carefree rush of adrenalin when matching or racing the other. He should erase all recollection on being hugged in the silent shadows of trees when feeling sad. He was not that kid any longer, he’d shed his naivete long ago, when the illusion they created at the riverbank had been shattered. All that time that passed by...for all intents and purposes, they didn’t happen at all... 

*/*/* 

“When’s your birthday?” 

Madara glanced down at his friend. Hashirama was lying on his stomach next to him, chewing on a long blade of grass and staring at the water as it run peacefully in its course. He looked deep in thought, or rather lost in daydreaming, as if he didn’t even spoke, didn’t ask such a stupid question just now. Madara shifted, pulling his legs under himself. 

“Why?” 

“Cause I don’t want to miss it. We are friends, I should give you some present.” 

“You don’t have to,” Madara shrugged. He thought it absurd, talking about such a thing, when they didn’t even know basic things about the other, like what clan they were coming from. 

“It’s not that I  _ have to! _ ” Hashirama sat up suddenly. “But that I  _ want to!”  _ he grinned at Madara, easy, full of life and mischief, and as always that made the Uchiha forget his doubts instantly. 

“Oh, I don’t know,” he replied teasingly. “What if you give me something lame and I’ll hate it? Wouldn’t it be better if you don’t give me anything at all? 

“I haven’t thought of that…” Hashirama hung his head, irritating Madara with his sudden burst of depression, just as he always did. But before he could snap at him, the other boy was sitting up, a beam or grin breaking out on his face. “Then tell me what you want!” 

“Ehh…” what could he ask for? He usually got weapons, ointments and other practical stuff from his father, things that would come handy in a fight. He certainly didn’t want anything like that from his friend, not when they were talking about putting an end to the wars just earlier that afternoon. 

“What is it that you really want?” Hashirama pressed on, scooting closer on his knees. If he didn’t answer, he’d try to wrestle him to the ground and pry it out from him by force. Madara had become quite an expert in reading his body language and predicting what he was about to do. 

“Peace,” he said, without thinking. His friend blinked at him, serious once again. That was the most unreasonable thing to say, and he felt embarrassed blurting it out. Talking about ending the fights was one thing, but they both knew that achieving it was far out of their reach… 

“Ok,” Hashirama said quietly. “That would be a good present. How long I got till your birthday then?” 

“It’s in December… but…” 

“So, I have five months, huh? 

“You can’t do it,” he turned his face away, not able to stand the determined glint in the other’s dark brown eyes. 

“Why do you say that? We’re talking about it all the time…” 

“Hashirama,” he sighed, tearing out patches of grass and watching them staining his fingers with their green juices. He couldn’t bring himself to glance up at the other boy. “Don’t…” 

“But I want to do it. For you. That’s the present I want to give to you.” 

He looked back at him, surprised. Peace was for keeping children safe, so they wouldn’t be forced into fighting for their lives and killing other people at such a tender age as they had been. It was for keeping their younger brothers protected. They never mentioned they’d want to do it for themselves, for the other - though Madara did fantasise about how it would be if they could meet freely, not just in secret. Hashirama looked so sincere – he appeared somehow older than he really was, with the determination, the self-confidence of an adult. Even though he wore those unfitting clothes, had that lousy haircut, Madara found him handsome like this, full of fire, full of his strong will to make things right. 

This embarrassed him, just as it did every time he had similar thoughts. His friend evoked emotions in him that he couldn’t - or didn’t want to - place. It was bad enough that he kept meeting him, knowing the dangers of it, but to feel the way he felt… what would his father say if he knew he was fantasizing about another boy in the darkness of his room at nights? That he pictured him when he touched himself on those rare occasions he managed to have some alone time? How shameful it was to think of his friend’s smile, his warm hand, his lithe body when he came. What kind of a freak did this make him be? Thank the gods that Hashirama didn’t know about it, he’d never want to meet him again. 

He was looking at Madara with that open expression still, so surely, he had no clue of what was going on in the Uchiha’s mind. 

“You’re being stupid,” Madara muttered. When he wanted to stand up, his friend grabbed his shoulders to keep him back. He was so close, kneeling in front of him. 

“No, I really… I want to… I will…” Hashirama stammered and that was unlike him. He flushed to a deep shade of pink, from the tip of his ears, down his neck as far as his shirt showed skin, and he couldn’t tell why, but that made Madara’s cheeks redden as well.   

They were silent for a while, just staring into each other’s eyes. Time seemed to stop, Madara didn’t even hear the splash of the river or the rustle of trees any longer, only the blood pounding unbearably loud in his ears. 

“I…” Hashirama started again, before he leaned even closer, to press his lips against Madara’s. He shut his eyes firmly, so the Uchiha could only stare at his closed lids, his eyebrows drawn together in determination, the vivid pink flush on his cheeks. He radiated waves of heat, making Madara feel hot too. He didn’t protest, he just didn’t know what to do, so he just sat there, dumbstruck at what was happening - but then Hashirama gave a tiny little sound, somewhere between a growl and a whine and grabbed the back of his neck and one of his arms, pulling him flush against his chest. Madara’s eyes closed involuntarily as the other moved his mouth on his, tongue pushing in between his lips. It was supposed to be disgusting - he was  _ kissing  _ with a  _ boy  _ \- but Madara could only moan as he tried to return what he got. 

It was sloppy and clumsy, he felt so warm that was afraid his clothes would just catch fire, but he still didn’t want to let Hashirama go when he pulled back. 

“I’ll give you peace. I promise,” his friend whispered and, in that moment, Madara couldn’t help but to believe him. 

*/*/* 

Madara groaned as he turned to his stomach and buried his face in the crook of his arms. Why was he thinking about this of all things? It happened more than three years ago, on the last day when he could still call Senju Hashirama a friend. He’d gone home that afternoon, dizzy, elated and hopeful… and everything crashed down around him. The next time he saw the other boy his father and Izuna was behind him, watching unobtrusively from the shadows. The stones… they had the same idea, they had to warn each other...Then he cut ties, closed his emotions up, along with his treacherous weakness somewhere deep inside, so they could be the enemies their fates intended them to be. Thinking of illicit kisses stupid kids shared and promises of peace that couldn’t be kept did him nothing good. 

He gave up on sleep as soon as the sun started to rise and went out to the porchway. At least the rain stopped, the pools freezing up over the night. Shivering in the chilly wind, he was just about to go back in, when he noticed the plant. It pushed through the planks as if it was springtime and not winter, a single branch, willowy, brown and green, full of life. It wrung around a package of some sort, holding it securely with its wines. Madara’s heart jumped up to his throat. He knew who it was from instantly. 

Shamefully, his first thought was  _ nobody can see this,  _ and only after did he consider the implication of Hashirama making this thing grow at such place, right on his porch. Did this mean he could invade their guarded quarters just as easily with his bloodline ability? He crouched down quickly, but he didn’t have to tear out the plant - as soon as he touched it, it opened up, dropping its package into his palm then withdrew to the ground. 

It was a piece of paper, wrapped around a small stone. He unfolded it - then just stared at the pebble. The side upwards was smooth, but he could feel the engraving on it nestled face down in his palm. He knew with certanity what the message on it said. Though he held it only for a minute at the most, more than three years ago, he knew it was warning him of a trap. He was sure it was the same piece of stone that Hashirama had thrown him. Did he go back for them…? 

He wanted to fling it away, he’d even raised his arm to do so, but then he let it down and put the stone into a pocket on his belt. Best if he kept it for the time being, he could get rid of it later when no one saw it. For a few minutes he just stared off into nothingness before he made up his mind to read the letter. It was a short one. 

_ Madara, _

_ Happy Birthday. I still want to give that present to you - peace. Please consider the ceasefire offers. _

_ I miss you. _

_ Hashirama _

He couldn’t help it, he started to laugh. Without a noise, but his shoulders still shook with the force of it. Of all the stupid things… Was he this much of an idiot, or did he think Madara so gullible?  

His bitter mirth soon subdued. Even if the Senju was honest, it couldn’t be done. His clan didn’t want peace and he had to do what their interest was. This note was just an unwanted reminder of days passed by. He had burned the bridges, there was no way back. 

Still, he kept the letter to look at it on sleepless nights, to run his fingers over the words  _ I miss you  _ and to think about how things could have been if he and Hashirama were someone else. When the day came to hold his old friend’s hand back from killing himself, he had it with him, tucked away safely under his clothing. 

**FIN**

 


End file.
